Tucked away on the very top shelf of my closet are two lidded boxes, gray cardboard trimmed with metal.  Inside the boxes are documents and trinkets I need to know still exist even if I hardly ever look at them,  journals I peek at occasionally, for their reminder of something no longer at my fingertips. There’s the leather and hand-made paper one (Il Papiro, Firenze),  the cloth-covered one with a musical staff on the cover, the abstract black-and-white vinyl one, echoes of Keith Haring.

Each one has its own beginning and end; one begins Sat., July 6, 1991, “three weeks in our new home,” and ends Fri., May 14, 1993, the day my daughter loses a front tooth.  Days earlier we celebrated Mother’s Day, the first without my mother, who had died a month earlier. “Here is the sum total,” I write. “I am my mother’s daughter . . . and my daughter’s mother.”  Unlike other diaries I abandoned, empty pages left blank, for the sake of a fresh beginning, this one is its own slice of time, filled up cover to cover.

Ones that predate these are lost to me, tossed away for some of the very same reasons Dominique Browning spells out in a New York Times essay that cuts to the heart of her decision to burn 40 years’ worth of diaries.

I didn’t want anyone else reading my diaries, ever, she writes.

My very first was powder blue vinyl, a girl’s figure embossed on the cover. In my memory, she has a touch of Veronica (the dark-haired love of comic-book character Archie) or possibly Betty Boop. There is a lock and key enclosure on the diary, as there would be on the next one I would get, the teenage years, a honey brown leather.  I took them from apartment to apartment, house to house, their secrets known only to me. I always knew where the keys were.  What struck me most when I last opened them was not the dearth of meaningful entries (no Anne Frank exposing my heart and soul to that silent listener; just a maudlin preteen/teen mostly careful about what I put down). Yes, there were one or two that touched me – a great aunt died and I thought I would never be the same;  a boy who had a crush on me could not understand why I had a crush on someone else.  But what struck me most was the handwriting that never changed.  A lefty’s awkward script, always trying for a slant it would never have.  Scribbling in a rush to get it all down as quickly as I could, or maybe scribbling just for the sake of itself. The deeper I went into myself, the less decipherable my handwriting would become.

It was the same with each new diary, the clean fresh pages begging to be filled.  I would start out with a neat, slow hand. Invariably the scribbling took hold, a coded reminder, in a way, that there are things intended for my eyes only. Forever.  Reference points, in my own hand, that can instantly place me at some moment in time worthy of reflection. Cards and notes and newspaper clippings tucked between the pages. And who else would really care? A few weeks ago, Britton Minor wrote a very moving piece about intimacy and solitude.  Doesn’t get much more intimate than writing to yourself.

Dear Diary:  Something has changed. God knows I love being alone with my thoughts. Walking keeps them spinning. Meditating slows them down. My iPod drowns them out.  But more often these days it’s a place deeper than words that draws me when I’m not hard at work on the stories and essays spawned and nourished, no doubt, by years of opening myself up to you.  Suffice it to say this – it’s me, not you.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Dad loved the work he did. He called it simple work. But he simply loved it and people loved him. Whether he was working as a father, a career volunteer, in the church or at the office, he loved his work. And his attitude was infectious.

Mother wore her work like a badge of honor. Every story she told ended with a sigh and… “I did this work for my family.”

Conflicted by my parents’ messages, my dad’s attitude toward work resonated with me. The stronger, more positive spirit won out, and as I recall during my imaginary playtime, I announced happily, “I am off to work now!”

Thinking back on the many gifts I received from my parents on the business of work, what burns brightest is the light that illuminated their lives, expressing their greatest values. The legacy of doing versus just being was a strong lesson. “At work, do your work joyfully,” dad would say adding, ” when it’s family time be present!”

Early on, little ones pretend to be mommies and daddies. As their world grows larger, the young child imitates the role of doctor or police officer. Subliminally they want to serve and make things better! Why does that change?
All too soon the self-absorbed teen searches for ways to chase a paycheck. The shift in values begins. Young adults see their lives fragmented; you get a job, earn a salary and the rest of your time is spent on doing things that bring some happiness.
But I would argue that work and life are connected. Both are driven by the Spirit. What spirit of work do you impart in your home? How are your experiences with work shaping your son or daughter’s attitude and perspective?

This summer, the family and I visited Wild Rivers, Irvine’s water park, on its last weekend. There had been a few years of false alarms and last-minute lease extensions, but this time we were sure it was the end; when we climbed the highest slides we could see the bulldozers off in the distance. It was a strange and somewhat melancholy time – I once attended a camp next door to Wild Rivers and spent the larger part of a summer going there daily, so it brought back a lot of memories.

The old park was showing its age, a bit – I distinctly remember the two slides I preferred back in the 80s, and they were still there, with only a handful of newer ones. The facilities looked a bit run down, the decor was questionable, and the Jacuzzis were barely warm. But, it was still a great time – the slides were pretty close to as fun now as they were back then, and the location is beautiful, a hidden enclave of rolling hills with nothing but an old water park and an amphitheater.

The thing that bothers me, though – the park and the amphitheater are both being razed to build more houses. I don’t understand the logic here – why destroy the amenities, which are the things that make someplace good to live, in order to just make more room for people to live there? Is there anything in the vision of Irvine except places to shop?

I suppose that Irvine has a great school district, the Spectrum and whatnot and probably has no fear of running out of new residents. Still, I do feel like Orange County, and Irvine in particular, have an overpowering desire to root out all things strange and eccentric, intending to replace things that are more acceptable and, well, safe.

I may be hypocritical in this – I, too, want Orange County to be safe… I have a little one of my own now, and the desire for her to grow up safe and with a good education keeps me here. But, still, I have to wonder – will I recognize this place in ten years? I have already seen suburbia crowd out Huntington Beach and start to encroach on Tustin… Does it stop somewhere?

David N. Scott also reviews awesome things that are not closed over on Our Kind of Stuff.

An end of the summer event; who doesn’t like a night outdoors?  It’s the last Saturday in August. The big dipper’s appearance overhead is an added treat to the beautiful Hollywood Bowl back drop.  The impressive bandshell shines like the bright sun before she sets in the west. Eighteen thousand concert-goers begin to find a place to nest and dine.

In this fish bowl, the class distinctions mirror life.

You can find the top one per cent comfortably seated in the pool circle. The inhabitants are sport-coated and strapless. Amidst the crisp linens, silverware and crystal, catered meals and fine champagne generously flow. The fragrance of sophistication fades before it reaches the higher elevations.

Terrace boxes comprise the next nine percent of the population. Neatly packaged dinners, plasticware and moderately wines with bold labels are prominently positioned for the discerning eyes to see. Casual elegance and polite conversations buffer the exuberance from above.

And then there is the rest of the world. Tupperware to two buck chuck, food and wine are stored underneath the seats and there is no pretense here. No comparing but lots of sharing. While there is a definite distinction of class and color; the evening’s participants of the ”rest of show”  display decorum and genuine pleasure in open-air experience. Saturday date-night itty bitty black dresses loose fitting collared shirts dot the crowd adding a festive feel to what awaits 36,000 longing ears.

The balmy night air is filled with magic and music and the two and one half hour  stunning performance does not disappoint. Three encores speak volumes. All have been sated. People have come to catch a glimpse of a legendary conductor. God smiles and realizes that lives may not be permanently changed by a philharmonic experience but civility reigns as the masses pour into the streets of a Saturday Night feverish Hollywood lifestyle.